


Bellamy's Room

by Ghelik



Series: The 100 Fics [39]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Light Angst, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 05:48:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13606866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghelik/pseuds/Ghelik
Summary: Bellamy's staring out of the window when Clarke enters the room.





	Bellamy's Room

Bellamy stands by the window, his back to the room. It is a lovely living room with matching leather couches and a white wooden library bracketing a gas fireplace. On the shelves, tastefully spaced knick-knacks and pictures. There is a photograph of a young woman surrounded by happy children. The woman’s white skin a harsh contrast to the dark children. Through the window, he can see a nicely manicured lawn and a hedge wall, tall enough to shield the window from nosy neighbors. Bellamy doesn’t care about the flowerbed or the hedge, or the books neatly packed in the bookcases – he has read them all anyway. No, his eyes are glued to the night sky, high, high over his head. Clouds roll in from the south, covering the smiling face of the waning moon. Two lonely stars twinkle in the darkness.

Once upon a time, he enjoyed hiking with his friends and his sister. They would get lost in the woods and see so many stars. Octavia always loved to hear him tell stories about the constellations.

Bellamy sighs.

That memory feels so distant now. 

 _Maybe, someday_ …

The thought vanishes before it even forms. His heart stutters for a moment. There’s a little craving deep in his bones, just enough to be a slight - if persistent - nudge in the back of his mind.

He doesn’t hear her come into the room per se, but there’s this nearly imperceptible disturbance, a _shift_ , like the air is making room for her, like the room, just exhaled after holding its breath for too long.

His heart starts to hammer harder against his ribs. His hands twitch, fingers suddenly cold. He can feel her eyes on him: watching like a lioness about to pounce.

_I should…_

The thought escapes him.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. His whole skin hums with the promise of her touch, muscles tensing and relaxing, trembling and it takes everything he has not to turn around. His ears strain to hear her coming closer, but she pads so silently on her socked feet, it always takes him by surprise when he feels her warm breath on the back on his neck, when her pale arms sneak around his waist, pulling him against a soft, pliant chest.

Bellamy’s heart swells with so many warring emotions. His muddled brain tries to process everything, but it’s too slow. Ever since he came here, thinking feels like wading through mud. Once upon a time, he was smart, he vaguely remembers, he was quick of thought and body. Now moving his hands to rest them on top of hers, feels like he’s running against the current.

Her scent fills his brain, leaving him lightheaded and unstable. Her nose brushes the skin just over his collar. The tip of her nose is cold.

She holds him, crushing him against her chest and a small, very quiet part of his brain wants her to stop.

“I think that’s enough,” she whispers, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. He can feel her smile on the side of his throat when he fails to repress a shudder.

Bellamy grunts when she bites the tender skin where his throat meets his shoulder. She doesn’t smooth the ache with her tongue, and he doesn’t move to touch the area. When the arms around his chest pull away, Bellamy turns and follows her out of the living room and into the hall.

The front door stands to their right: just an innocuous white plank with a small flap for the post and three locks. There’s a little table next to the door, a beautiful bowl made of mother-pearl holds a set of keys. The dish was a gift from her mother.

He walks in front of her down the stairs and into his room.

“You did good,” she praises as he sits down on his bed and a tiny, very unimportant part of his brain tries not to fill with pride. Her smile could light the darkest room.

When she’s happy, her whole face brightens; blue eyes getting clearer, twinkling like tiny stars, wrinkling at the corners.

Her name is Clarke; she’s a doctor, spends her life helping people, _saving people._

Clarke has saved Bellamy, too.

When she comes closer, he extends his arm obediently. Doing so without prompting, earns him another radiant smile and a peck on the corner of his mouth. He sits still while Clarke prepares.

He feels the pinprick on the inside of his arm. His mouth is dry as he watches the syringe emptying. _It’s too much…_ whispers the nagging voice in the back of his mind.

The warmth that follows takes the coldness away. His body flushing from head to toe, muscles uncoiling ache vanishing, nerve endings singing with pleasure, his skin doesn’t feel too tight anymore. The small, unruly voice in the back of his head drowns in wave after wave of buzzing happiness.

Bellamy is only mildly aware of Clarke’s hand guiding his body back onto the hard mattress before the world fades to black.

 

***

 

Octavia stands over him, her bleeding knuckles leaving a dark streak under her nose as she wipes it with the back of her hand. “This is all your fault,” the teen growls down at him.

Bellamy knows he’s dreaming because his body doesn’t ache and, usually, when she stands like this over him. “I didn’t mean to…” He isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for. The fact that he’s on his hands and knees at his sister’s feet is a dead giveaway that he’s done something wrong, something to deserve this.

Octavia’s steel-toed boot connects with his belly. “I don’t care about your excuses!” howls the teen and he flinches back. “This is all your fault, and you deserve it!” He bows his head, too ashamed to look her in the eye. She’s right he deserves this. Whatever _this_ is.

The teen spits and turns on her heel. “You can keep him. I don’t want him anymore.”

“O...” he tries to rise, but there are shackles around his wrist, black leather cuffs with heavy iron chains tying him to the ground, keeping him on all fours at his sister's feet. “O, come back!” He watches her marching towards the door; not a single look spared to him. “O! Please!”

Another form steps into the room. She’s shorter than Octavia, her shadow curvier and heavier. His heart beats frantically in his chest. “Octavia!” The door slams shut. “I am sorry! Please!” It’s cold in this woman’s shadow. He wants to go back home. He wants his sister to come back for him. “Octavia!” Because without her, who is he? “Please! Come back!”

“Shhhh, everything is ok… Wake up, baby.”

Bellamy opens his eyes to see the concrete wall a few inches away from his nose. There is someone soft and warm lying behind him, a tiny hand on his shoulder, softly kneading the muscle. Her words ghost over his naked back.

He doesn’t need to turn around to know it’s Clarke lying behind him. She’s the only woman he has ever woken up in bed with. She will be the only woman he ever wakes up in bed with.

_That shouldn’t…_

The thought vanishes, and he turns towards her sunny face. “You were crying in your sleep.” She brushes the tears from his cheeks with her thumbs.

“It’s nothing,” his voice croaks a little, and she automatically turns towards the rickety nightstand and offers him water from a plastic cup. Bellamy sits up. The cup looks so small and fragile in his hand. “Do you want to talk about it.”

“You’ll get mad,” he whispers into the cup. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Clarke’s jaw tensing.

“You were dreaming about Octavia again,” she growls testily. Bellamy’s silence only confirms it. She pulls away from him and stands up, the place in his skin she had been pressed against suddenly ice cold.

She paces the length of the tiny room: from the far wall where the toilet is, to the narrow desk bolted to the wall. There used to be a screen closing it off, but Bellamy lost the privilege to it a long time ago and hadn’t earned it back since.

“I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”

Clarke shakes a hand in his direction. “I just don’t understand why.” Her golden hair cascades down her back, catching the light like a halo whenever she moves her head. “She hurt you. You’re better off now: healthier, safer.”

“I don’t do it on purpose.”

“That’s worse!” Clarke turns sharply to him, blue eyes ablaze. “It means that you’re still sick! You’re still addicted to her.”

“She’s my sister,” Bellamy tries to appease the angry woman. “I will always love her.”

“But she’s bad for you! She hurt you! She hurt you for years.”

 _Kind of like you_ , mumbles that tiny voice in the back of his mind.

It’s a nagging voice that keeps coming back, keeps whispering poisonous things in his mind. Clarke is trying to get rid of it for him, to free him. But she hasn’t succeeded yet: no matter how many drugs she uses to drown it, the voice always comes back.

“What is it?”

Bellamy’s eyes snap up to her face. She’s noticed. Of course, she has, because, in this tiny world that he lives in, Clarke’s all knowing, all seeing and all-powerful. His personal goddess: perfect in every way.

“The voice is back,” he admits. Clarke exhales a curse. “You’re building up a resistance to your medicine.” She runs her hands through her hair.

“It’s barely even there…”

Clarke smiles down at him and gets closer to peck him on the lips. She brushes his hair back. “We’ll get rid of it. I promise.” Her eyes flicker to her wristwatch and groans. “I’ll give you another dose before I leave. It should be enough to keep you calm until I come back.”

Bellamy watches her prep the needle. The tiny voice in the back of his head is disgusted with himself. The medicine – _drug_ – keeps his brain addled, crippled, his body compliant. When he’s under its effects thinking feels like wading through a swamp. But going without it is way worse.

When she comes closer, he extends his arm, and she smiles her sunny smile. The voice in the back of his head despises how good that single smile makes him feel.

Clarke wipes the area with cotton dabbed in alcohol and kisses the top of his head.

A part of him wants to go down on his knees and thank her.

Bellamy is too aware of what it is like when she goes away, and his body starts to expel her medicine – _poison_ , supplies the quiet voice. Knows that the hallucinations, the pain, and the shivers are worse than being slow.

She packs the needle away and steps back. “I’ll be back tonight. Maybe, if you’re good, we can watch a movie.”

He nods. The medicine is starting to drag him under into velvety heaven of mindlessness.

He watches her walk to the door and key the code to open it. She changes it every day. The heavy door opens inward, outside the basement is dark, the only light coming from the top of the stairs.

 _I could make a run for_ it, mumbles the voice in his mind.

Clarke turns to smile at him.

The door slams shut. Leaving him alone in his eight by ten concrete room. His eyes drift around the bare walls while the drugs take away his pain and desires. It is better like this. It won’t hurt if he cannot remember what it was like to live in a world in which doors actually opened for him. He vaguely remembers a time when that wasn’t the case. When he had to be restrained when he said and did things that got him in trouble. This is better.

A part of him wants to fall at Clarke’s feet and thank her for taking care of him.

A tiny part of him wants to kill her for what she’s doing to him.

His mother once told him, that’s what love is. So Bellamy guesses he loves Clarke.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah... So that happened.   
> Based on what we know and what we saw in the infamous "Octavia-beats-Bellamy-to-a-bloody-pulp-while-we-all-watch"-scene. I think that taking those characters into a modern setting, the relationship between Bellamy and pretty much every member of his family would be one of emotional and physical abuse, leaving him with a shit-load of self-esteem and self-confidence issues.   
> I think these issues - rather clear on the show- tend to get lost in fandom, especially when the characters are brought to a modern setting, which is a pity.  
> Anyway, this was unbetad, as always.   
> Thanks so much for reading and commenting.


End file.
